


The Wolf Sheds His Coat

by Sath



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Cultural Differences, Huddling For Warmth, Inadvertently helpful trolls, M/M, Not Prime Time Treat, Orc-slaying, Pining, Resolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-11
Updated: 2015-07-11
Packaged: 2018-04-08 09:00:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4298724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sath/pseuds/Sath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A predictable skirmish with Orcs ends with Beleg and Túrin spending a fraught night trapped in a ravine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Wolf Sheds His Coat

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mithen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mithen/gifts).



Dragging the razor upwards with an irritated flick, Túrin began to shave for the first time since he had left Doriath. His beard had set him apart from his past—it made him look older, and he was no longer mistaken for an Elf. None of his men had ever seen him without it. But when Beleg had pulled Túrin into a welcoming embrace, he had laughed as their cheeks brushed against each other.

“You’ve armoured your face against friend and foe alike,” Beleg had said. “A hedgehog would be jealous of your spines.”

For Beleg’s sake, Túrin was ridding himself of the beard. He cursed his impatience as the razor clipped his jawline, and looked back to see if he had disturbed Beleg’s rest. Since Túrin had the only comfortable bed in Bar-en-Danwedh, it was only right to offer to share it with his travel-weary friend.

Dwarves never had to endure this. Túrin did his best with the tarnished old mirror, but he would have to wait until morning to see if there were any stubborn hairs remaining. He disliked the boyishness of his reflection, and worked to deepen his frown.

After stripping down to his shirt, he joined Beleg in his unaccustomedly warm bed. The mattress was a gift from Mîm, dragged out of some hidden storehouse of odds and ends. Beleg shifted onto his back, the dim lamplight outlining how his dear features were the same as they had always been, while Túrin found he barely knew himself from one day to the next.

Their closeness reminded him of how his last few years in Doriath had been spent longing for Beleg’s touches to linger, as if Túrin were in a ballad penned by an unlucky minstrel. Never had Beleg given Túrin any reason to think his attraction would be returned. Elves seemed to have no desire for sex outside of the begetting of children, and Beleg’s closest companion had always been the woods. That was one of the reasons Túrin loved him; if they were not together, they were alone. He briefly allowed himself to imagine kissing Beleg while he slept, taking from his lips what Túrin would never dare ask for. How would Beleg respond if he knew Túrin’s mind? Maybe with pity, buried under his usual sharpness.

Beleg’s friendship and good regard, little as Túrin often deserved either, meant more than anything else. Instead, Túrin considered the endless problem of their winter supplies, and how much food and fuel were needed to keep his men from wanting to return to their lawless raiding. When Beleg rolled towards him, the crown of his head tickling Túrin’s chin while his breath heated his neck, Túrin thought of root vegetables with even greater sincerity, and put out the light.

* * *

The sound of Beleg humming a tune gently roused Túrin from sleep. He was holding Belthronding on his lap, waxing the bowstring. Túrin watched him for a while, glad that though Beleg glanced up to see that Túrin was awake, he did not immediately press a conversation. It was as if Túrin had never left Doriath, and spent his unhappy seasons among the Gaurwaith.

“You’ve grown no more eager to rise on mornings when there are no Orcs to slay,” Beleg said, finally setting down Belthronding.

Túrin sat up and set his feet on the cold floor, though he kept the blankets wrapped around his shoulders. Waking up was not something he did hastily without need.

“It is the nature of the Secondborn to rise with the sun, and she comes very late in midwinter.”

“Aye, but your icy feet were early to drive me from the bed.”

Flushing, Túrin tried to cover his embarrassment by replying, “I could have wrought worse. Smothered you in your sleep with my Mannish weight, mayhap.”

As always, Túrin’s tongue had worsened matters for himself. But Beleg was innocent to the downwards thrust of Túrin’s brain.

“So the patch of beard clinging to your neck is not the only mark of your manhood,” Beleg said, after clearing his throat.

“It’s easy to make light of what you’ve never had to do yourself, much as you carp about your old age, and my youth.” Grimacing as he felt the prickly stripe he had missed, Túrin added, “Orcs do not carry shaving mirrors.”

“They might be more handsome if they did.”

For one moment, Túrin thought Beleg was flirting, until he remembered that that was absurd, and he was only being teasingly compared to an Orc. He would not let Beleg see that he was disappointed, though Beleg was quick enough to notice how Túrin had furrowed his brows.

“Allow me to help you, and you will not need to wait for Orcs to discover vanity. I would have brought your mirror from Doriath, had I not been so eager to leave,” said Beleg.

Before Túrin could marshal the will to protest, Beleg took the razor from Túrin’s small cache of personal items. Túrin weighed the danger of a razor being wielded by someone who, when asked by Túrin about what to do with the sudden ragged growth on his upper lip, had said, “I think your people pull it off with tar,” against having Beleg handle his face.

It was unlikely that Beleg would kill him by accident. The touch Túrin wanted came as Beleg held his chin at an angle to expose his neck, and Túrin swallowed as the blade scraped over his throat. There was something ill at ease in Beleg’s manner, even as he withdrew his hand, leaving Túrin clean-shaven.

“I have never known you to change for someone else’s comfort,” Beleg said.

Beleg was never troubled without good reason, and Túrin feared his heart was still turned towards Doriath.

“My men are changed, too. We have only raised up arms against Angband, and go hungrier for it.”

“You see good where it is scarce, but I will not deny that you have bettered them. They are surely waiting to see you by now.”

Having spent so many years in the wild, Túrin trusted Beleg to have a truer sense of time than he had, even under stone. He wasted time searching for a tunic which did not look too worn, though he had the good fortune to find a clean shirt and wool breeches he had not worn since he had misplaced them last autumn. Beleg was already dressed and composed for the day, waiting with his eyes focused on the ceiling. It made him seem distant.

“Come, let’s see how early it is,” Túrin said, drawing Beleg’s attention with a hand on his elbow.

“Or late.”

The winter sun was out when they left the hill, and the camp strangely quiet. Where cooking fires usually burned, his men were gathered around coals, and those who had armour were wearing it. Andróg was the first to approach Túrin.

“You kept Neithan past even his usual hour,” he said, eyeing Beleg. “Yet you both look refreshed for sharing a bed, loathe as you must have been to leave it.”

Túrin nearly struck Andróg for the cheek. Though Beleg had likely missed some of Andróg’s meaning, he had caught enough to have a warning set to his mouth. “If you would like your own mattress, Andróg,” Turin replied, scowling, “you will first have to end your feud with Mîm.”

The mere mention of the Dwarf made Andróg stiffen. “I have not the courtesy to cozen that miserable little creature.”

“Courtesy is something you have never shown,” said Beleg. 

“I just did. There are signs of a raiding party on the borders of Brethil, and we prepared while you slept. I saved Neithan some breakfast.” Andróg handed Túrin a bowl of lukewarm gruel.

“Nothing for me?” Beleg asked.  

Preferring to leave Andróg to Beleg’s more measured discipline, Túrin passed him the gruel and rushed to the north wall. He did not need the sentry’s help to see where the Orcs were moving through the forest, for they felled trees as they went. Túrin had not yet taught them to be cautious within sight of Amon Rûdh.

“How many do you think they are?” said the sentry. He was one of the newer members of the band, come from the woods only just before the winter had begun. Though he had said he was twenty, Túrin marked him as no more than fourteen and an ambitious liar. 

“Three dozen, with two captains among them. We must head them off before they reach any settlements.” Because Túrin could not remember his name, he clapped the boy on the back instead, nearly sending him stumbling over the wall by accident. “Learn to keep your balance.”

Andróg had a promising look of contriteness when Túrin came back to give the order to leave. The Gaurwaith assembled quickly and set off without protest, despite the snow on the ground; Beleg’s gift of food had heartened them, and perhaps his presence as well. While the Orcs headed east, the bravest of the People of Haleth would be harrying them from the trees, forcing them to stay close to the river. Túrin’s men could wait for the Orcs near the ravines, press them hard, and defeat them. There was little danger in the plan, and the mood was light as they passed through the woods. Forweg had taught the Gaurwaith how to creep overland, which Túrin was now using to better purpose.

“They are less wild than when I first saw them,” Beleg remarked.

“I hope they will earn even kinder words from you before the day’s end.”

“I have never cared for the company of Men, so do not hope for too much.”

Túrin knew that Beleg had not meant to include him in the remark, and his men had earned Beleg’s contempt, but it still stung at Túrin’s pride to have his race dismissed.

“You are free to leave it whenever you like,” Túrin said.

“I know.”

Beleg was the only person in his life whom Túrin could not leave behind. If Túrin could prove to Beleg that he was not simply squandering himself with the outlaws and was truly resisting the Enemy, Beleg would be glad to fight side by side, as he had been in Dimbar. Otherwise, it would be kinder to find the strength to tell Beleg that he should not stay.

“My eyes will do more good at the head of the band,” Beleg said. “We can better discuss why I’m here when we return to Amon Rûdh.”

As Beleg wended his way to the front, the men parted around him. Túrin considered putting his next speech on why he could not return to Doriath into song, _The Lay of Why the Child of Húrin Rejects All Counsel_ , to make arguing over it less bitter. Of course, his harp was gathering dust with all of his other possessions in Doriath, if Saeros’s kin had not already claimed them as weregild. He would ask Algund what he should do about Beleg, except he knew the old man would tell Túrin to either pack his bags or stick his cock in the snow until his feelings cooled. Beleg would likely not appreciate how living among other Men had expanded his vocabulary.

Since the day was blessedly free of wind, they were able to go with their faces uncovered. Soon, the weather would turn too cold for Orcs or Men to easily fare abroad. They arrived at the ravines around midday, and split into two parties. Beleg and the archers hid themselves in the thick cover near the summit of a hill, and Túrin led the rest into a ditch, which was all that remained of the trade road that had once traversed Brethil before Gorthaur’s foul reach had expanded. The sign to attack would come when the archers fired, driving the Orcs between the ravines and the swords of the Gaurwaith. Judging by how silent the woods were, the sign would be coming no time soon.

“Do you think that Lúthien is the only one of the Elves to ever love a Man, Algund?” Túrin asked, driven by boredom. Algund had once caught Túrin with one of the Haladin, and had not judged him for it. 

Shifting to spare his knee, Algund sighed. “I have not heard of others, but surely such a thing has happened elsewhere.”

Túrin thought back to counting turnips while Beleg slumbered against him.

“The Elves seem so very chaste.”

“If you’re thinking of the strapping fellow up in the trees,” Algund replied dryly, “I am certain he loves you but you’re better off sticking your cock in the snow.”

Truly, it was Algund’s most common advice in the winter months.

“Does it work?”

“Depends on your circulation.”

At last, the Orcs arrived to deliver Túrin from his turmoil. They bellowed when the first arrows hit their mark, and ran pell-mell into the rest of the Gaurwaith. Algund moved just as nimbly as the younger men, which Túrin proudly credited to being one of Hador’s people, and was the first to slay one of the creatures. Túrin held back until he spied the captain, a huge ugly thing wearing a boar’s skull and a belt of scalps. He did not have to cut his way through as he usually did, for the arrows of Doriath, fletched with pheasant feathers, struck down all who approached him. Flashing a smile up at the trees, Túrin ducked under the captain’s warhammer and brought his sword up to slash at its unprotected armpit. Off balance and bleeding, the captain dropped the warhammer and grabbed at Túrin’s face, its fingers narrowly missing him when it stumbled back with an arrow in its cheek. Túrin ripped off the captain’s gorget and slashed its throat with the Haladin anlace foolishly hanging from its belt. 

Where was the other captain? To the west, he heard the howls of wolves which had caught the scent of blood. Túrin had drifted from his men in his pursuit of the captain, and though the rest of the now leaderless Orcs were scattering towards the north, Algund was shouting for caution.

“We have to protect the archers,” Túrin commanded. “Riders will butcher them!”

“Agreed,” Andróg said, appearing at Túrin’s side. “Why even the Elf didn’t see the cursed wolves is beyond me; Gorthaur must be breeding them smarter these days.”

A scream signaled that the wolf-riders had beaten them to the archers. But the archers did not immediately break, and Túrin knew it was because Beleg was leading them. He was the first to arrive, his height aiding him in climbing the hill. Beleg was at the forefront of the beleaguered archers, wielding a great sword with a black blade which hummed like a wasp with each sweep.

“Neithan!” Beleg called out. “That was brutal work with the Orc captain.”

While Beleg fought the Orc in front of him, deflecting a blow from its crude mace before beheading it with his beautiful, strange sword, he did not see the foe approaching from behind. Túrin threw the anlace, striking the Orc in the neck and bringing it down. Beleg closed the distance between them and clasped Turin’s forearm, beaming to be in battle once again. Túrin wanted to kiss him.

“Are you pleased?” he asked instead.

“Troll,” Beleg replied, his smile fading as he pointed behind Túrin.

Four Orcs were holding a troll chained between them. The creature was even taller than Túrin, with arms thick as a stout man’s waist. Túrin had fought them before, and knew their hide was as hard as stone—but neither could they endure daylight, and yet here it was.

“Gorthaur aims to be as hated as his master,” said Beleg.

“We cannot let it reach the others.”

The Orcs enraged the troll by jabbing it with spears, then dropped the chains and fled. Túrin beat the flat of his blade against his bracer to get its attention, for they were trained to run after the sound of steel. Roaring, the troll scrambled up the hill, dragging itself by its knuckles when the ground was too steep. Túrin and Beleg ran towards the ravine, drawing it away from the men, who were being driven in the opposite direction by the wolf-riders. The troll had to be dealt with quickly.

Just as they had done in Dimbar, Beleg shouted “Hold!” in Orkish, and the creature froze, likely expecting a whip. Túrin stepped behind the troll, picking up one of the chains before hoisting himself onto its shoulders; it started to cry out, the noise like the keening and sobbing of a funeral. He briefly pitied it, though it had been created for nothing but slaughter. Circling the chain around the troll’s throat and keeping his boots braced by its hips, he jerked the chain tight, strangling what he could not pierce with a blade. Túrin would have been torn off or pummelled in an instant if Beleg had not been distracting the troll, bravely striking at it with his sword to keep its flailing arms focused on him. The troll began to wheeze and weaken, and it started to walk backwards to the ravine. Beleg tried to turn it away, almost succeeding before the troll suddenly grappled with Túrin and flipped him over its head. The troll shook him, making Túrin’s vision blur and his breath come short as it squeezed his sides. Túrin could do nothing but stare at Beleg helplessly as the ground seemed to slip away and the sky rose above his head; the troll must have slipped into the ravine. He heard Beleg call his name and felt his hands tugging at his shoulders, yet both of them knew there was no overpowering a troll. Beleg clung to him instead of letting him go, and they were falling together. 

Túrin could think of no better way to say goodbye than with a kiss, and it seemed in that final moment that Beleg pulled him closer.

Then the troll crashed to the ground with them on top of it, and they were alive. Head still spinning from being shaken, Túrin felt Beleg violently shove him aside, hard enough for him to roll against the side of the ravine. He saw two Belegs draw the black sword before they focused into one, hacking at the stunned troll’s throat. It cried out one last time, its eerie voice echoing against the stone now surrounding them. Beleg’s familiar face was transformed with wrath as he exhausted himself on the troll’s head, until there could be no doubt it was slain. Panting, Beleg looked at Túrin as if he did not know him.

“That was selfish of me,” Túrin said, reluctantly sitting up instead of lying humbly in the snow.   

Beleg strode forward and hauled Túrin to his feet. “That was why I could not stay away, against all my wisdom,” Beleg replied, and crushed their lips together. Neither of them had any patience, and it thrilled Túrin to think that Beleg must have wanted him just as much. How long ago could they have done this, and would it have changed anything? Túrin responded as fiercely as he had always desired, clasping Beleg tightly.

When Beleg broke the kiss, Túrin was so eager to follow that Beleg smiled and stroked his hair. “You’re shivering,” he said.

“Not so,” said Túrin, while his chattering teeth belied him. The wind had picked up and was tearing through the ravine, and his hood stopped very little of it. He would wear nothing on his head but the Helm of Hador, and that he had left at camp, uncertain whether the time had come to reveal it. Worse, his mail had been soaking up the cold all day and now that he had stopped moving, it was sinking through his gambeson.

“How do we get out of here?” Beleg asked. “Your men have likely repelled the Orcs by now.”

“There is no way up the ravine for many miles, unless you’re a bird.” Túrin angrily kicked a rock against the sheer sides. “The hour is late enough that they will go back to Amon Rûdh tonight, and send a search party for us in the morning. It is too dangerous for them to stay out here, even for their leader.”

“Will they come?”

“Aye, they will.” Túrin crossed his arms and tried to think himself warm again. His earlier elation had faded into the practical need to avoid freezing. He watched Beleg clear a small patch of snow from the ground with his boots, as if it would help.

Unclasping his cloak, Beleg spread it on the bare spot, which Túrin could now see was mostly sheltered from the wind. “I endure the cold better than you do,” he said, tugging off his leather jerkin and pulling his tunic over his head, “so come here and share my heat, or stay blushing where you are and make a fair block of ice.”

If Túrin was blushing, it was from the weather. He could feel the tip of his nose going red. “You did flirt with me earlier, then.”

“I did my best. I have little understanding of how Men court each other, nor how often they favour their own kind, and you flustered me this morning when you rubbed your erection against my stomach, mumbling about turnips in your sleep.”

They had misunderstood each other so thoroughly the urge to laugh overcame Túrin’s sense of embarrassment. “That is perfectly normal for my age.” Though Túrin had not known it himself until he overheard the outlaws teasing one another. 

“As I found out when I discreetly asked one of your archers." Whether Beleg had managed that Túrin severely doubted. "Now come here, before I start to feel cold myself.”

Despite the kiss, Beleg did not seem to share Túrin’s interest in sex, which would make for an awkward night. But he would certainly lose his toes if he stayed standing where he was, so he took off his cloak and bracers, then tugged off his mail. His fingers were numb even inside his gloves, and he had to work to unbuckle his gambeson.

“I’ll keep my back to you, lest you get flustered again,” Túrin replied, his voice muffled as he yanked his tunic up. The wind went howling through his thin undershirt, rushing him into joining Beleg on the ground. Drawing Túrin’s cloak over them both, Beleg helped pile all their clothing on top of him while he trembled with cold. Túrin clumsily kicked off his boots and had to bend his legs to keep his feet under the coverings. His gloves were the last thing he removed.

By the time Beleg settled next to Túrin, letting Túrin use his arm as a pillow for his icy cheek, he was already slowly warming up. Beleg had not exaggerated his resilience; his chest felt hot against Túrin’s back, turning the shivering into a building ache in his groin. When Beleg nosed aside Túrin’s hair so he could tuck his head against the back of Túrin’s neck, his heated breath brought one final shudder. He would make it through the night without frostbite, but every single touch was driving him senseless. It worsened when Beleg hooked one leg over Túrin’s, bringing them flush together as he took Túrin’s chilly fingers in his hands and started to chafe them. Túrin bit his lip, focusing on how Beleg’s forearms shifted with each movement. Everything was working to keep Túrin from lying still. He finally could not bear more, and tried to press himself against the ground. Beleg let go of his fingers and placed one hand on Túrin’s waist, stopping him. Túrin realized that he was not the only one aroused.

“So you are not completely chaste, after all,” Túrin said.

“You are very unobservant.” Beleg sounded resigned. “Just because Elves do not announce every romance does not mean we do not have them.”

It would have been unbelievable that Túrin could have missed learning such a thing, except Túrin had had no friends in Doriath but Beleg, and Elves were so naturally free in their affection for each other that Túrin supposed he could have seen dozens of pairs of lovers without noticing. Perhaps he might have discovered it among the march-wardens in Dimbar, but while he gained a welcome there through feats of arms, his race still set him apart from the gentler parts of their lives.

“Why did you not say something earlier?” Túrin asked.

“I did not fully know what I wanted to do until that troll nearly killed you in front of me. Sex is not something we take lightly, and you had barely come of age when you left Doriath.”

Beleg idly splayed his fingers and rubbed Túrin’s waist in slowly widening circles, sending a surge of warmth downwards. Túrin arched his back to feel how Beleg was growing harder against him, gratified by the way Beleg’s breathing caught. Knowing how horribly patient Beleg could be, Túrin hitched up his shirt and fumbled his belt open so he could push Beleg’s fingers into his breeches. Beleg handled Túrin’s cock with firm strokes as he kissed his neck, lips soft on the tender spot behind his ear.

“Túrin,” Beleg whispered, and it was the first time Túrin had heard his own name in over a year, pronounced with devotion. “If you knew how I have waited for this, you would believe me restrained in what I am about to do.”

“You have ever been savage with your tongue,” Túrin replied as Beleg let him go, rushing to pull down his breeches. Túrin gasped when Beleg slid his heavy prick between his thighs, bigger even than Túrin had expected from years of snatching glances at Beleg when he bathed. Beleg did not leave Túrin untended to for long, for he replaced his hand just before his first thrust. He struggled to keep silent, but could not keep himself from moaning when he felt Beleg’s length pressing against his balls. Beleg used his other hand to cover Túrin’s mouth, the awkward angle of his arm forcing Túrin to crane his neck, tasting the metal of the black sword’s hilt.  

“Shush, there’s an echo here. You might bring our rescuers early, or worse folk, much as I want to listen to you.”  

Beleg was quick to let go, tangling his fingers in Túrin’s hair instead. Túrin twisted his head so they could kiss as he caressed Beleg’s flank, slowing at his hip. Then Túrin went lower, feeling the clench of muscle each time Beleg pushed against him while he bucked insistently into Beleg’s grip. As if Beleg knew how close Túrin was, he moved his hand faster and surer, driving Túrin to cover his mouth himself or be heard along the entire ravine as Beleg brought him over. Túrin felt weak afterwards, suddenly mindful of being hot under the coverings and prickling with sweat where Beleg was lying against him.

“Stay as you are,” Beleg said, squeezing Túrin’s upper arm as he wiped off his fingers in the snow. “Your legs have provoked me for years.”

Teasingly stretching his legs, Túrin replied, “And you cannot even see them now.”

“I will have every inch of them in Bar-en-Danwedh.”

Spent as he was, Túrin still had a twinge of arousal. When Beleg briefly withdrew to slick up his cock with spit, Túrin shoved back against him, getting a teasing bite on the shoulder when Beleg settled back between his thighs. He dragged his hand underneath Túrin’s shirt, pausing at the scar left by a wolf’s teeth while Túrin had been traveling alone and unarmoured. Beleg kissed Túrin at the join of his shoulder while he thrust, and Túrin pushed more of his hair out of the way, baring his neck for Beleg’s pleasure. Túrin had tried to have lovers, and had used them poorly until he gave up altogether; even the ones who had admired his body to the point of worship had not excited him with their loveless coupling. But Beleg undid him, and Túrin strained after his touch just as desperately as he had that morning, until he felt Beleg’s release on his skin.

They stayed as they were for a while, neither wanting to disentangle themselves too soon. Beleg shifted behind him, then wiped at Túrin’s thighs with a strip of wool.

“Is that your stocking?” said Túrin, amused.

“It’s less obvious than our cloaks. I think your men are jealous enough of how you treat me, without also knowing that I am taking their beloved Neithan to bed. You have charmed them so well I think some might even stand up to a dragon, if you asked.”

Túrin turned over and rested his head against Beleg’s shoulder. “Do you think I would not?”

“I have seen a dragon, and I fear you will.” He tightened his arms around Túrin while the sun dipped over the top of the ravine. “I brought your harp with me. I worried that I was bearing it for nothing, but I was told in adoring words that you still sing.”

“Nothing suited for Menegroth, that is certain.”

Melian had been the one to sit Túrin on her lap and teach him how to play the harp. Shunning the songs he had learned in Doriath had left Túrin with little at first, for there had been no singing in the house of Húrin Thalion after the Evil Breath had passed through it. But one day Algund had lifted his voice in praise of the House of Hador, and Túrin could not resist joining him, and did not stop when others started to gather beside them. Afterwards, his men had taught him all the songs they knew, from bawdy doggerels to verses so old they were unmarked by the adopted Elven tongue, and those Túrin treasured best.

“I thought my harp would have been claimed by Saeros’s cousin, the one with the nose.”

“Oh, Thingol opened the treasury and threw a bag of gemstones at him, telling him he would pay him less if only he cared enough to calculate Saeros’s value. All of your things are still gathering dust in your quarters.”

The thought nagged at Túrin’s sense of peace, for he would rather that his time as Thingol’s foster-son had been destroyed. There was nothing but a low fate for him in Doriath, and he would not do his mother that ill return for her sacrifice.

“You should tell me of the Gaurwaith,” Beleg said, after Túrin stayed silent, “if I am to live among them.”

Glad that Beleg would let the argument lie, Túrin began with Forweg's baseness, and how it had been abandoned.

* * *

Algund arrived so early that Túrin had only just dressed himself and started to long for breakfast.

“We thought we may have lost you in here when neither you nor the troll came back to us. I’m glad to see you both made it through the chilly night, and pray you didn't feel too forsaken,” Algund said.

“You were right to wait until morning,” replied Túrin.

“Mîm was ready to slit our throats in the dark, but he should quiet when we bring you back.” He looked to Beleg inquiringly, seeming to suspect that Túrin had not followed his advice. “I am sorry we are ever hosting you poorly, Beleg of Doriath.”

“A better apology would be mulled wine, or at least some beer,” Beleg answered.

Letting down a thick length of rope, Algund nodded. “Beer we have in plenty, thanks to the Orcs wrecking a trade wagon, and we are always looking for an excuse to drink it.”

Beleg ascended first, climbing up as nimbly as someone who had not spent hours fitfully sleeping on the ground. On the other hand, Túrin discovered how badly the troll had abused his arms when he had to support his weight with them, and hissed through his teeth in annoyance. “Perhaps I did not pass unharmed through the night after all.”

“That is what comes from hugging a troll,” Beleg said, grinning down at him.

Túrin tried not to grimace when he returned to the camp and was rushed into several more embraces. Orleg was particularly eager to clap Túrin on his bruises. Fortunately, the men were easily distracted when Algund opened the promised keg of beer. Túrin stayed long enough to see that they were being friendly with Beleg, who was quickly drinking himself towards affection for all races, then withdrew to his room in Bar-en-Danwedh.

He found his harp in Beleg’s pack, unstrung. The wood had been recently oiled to a glowing sheen, and he spent a few moments enjoying how it felt under his hands, though there was a reproach in it too, for the finish seemed like Melian’s work. Túrin’s fingers were not as deft as they used to be, and he faltered a few times as he replaced the strings. None broke, despite his impatience. Tuning it was harder, and Beleg, who was the least musical Elf Túrin knew, had not thought to bring a tuning fork. He did his best by ear, until he could finally pluck a note without wincing.

Yet now he was not sure what to play. His heart was light enough for ballads, and Beleg would only lightly tease him if he altered the maidens blithe and fair to a hunter steadfast and chary. But Túrin’s mind kept turning to the future, and bending it towards his will. Glaurung bared his teeth from his place on top of the Helm of Hador, crouching over the visor from where Túrin’s forebears had looked out over victory and defeat.

Túrin jumped when Mîm came out of the shadows. He held his hands clasped in front of him, and shuffled forwards so meekly Túrin could not scold him for his spying.

“I feared you were dead,” said Mîm.

“And leave Mim friendless? I think not.”

Mîm peered at the harp, making a sign with his fingers. “That is a foul work of the Elves in your hands.”

“Nay.” Túrin patted the spot next to where he was sitting on his bed. “Would you like me to play you something?”

“Not one of their songs.” Mîm heaved himself up onto the mattress, settling as far away from Túrin and his Elvish harp as he could.

“Easily done.”

Inspired by the equal measures of loathing and affection in the Petty-dwarf, Túrin sang a song of disgraced Dor-lómin. He had heard it only once from Labadal, about a father’s sorrow to outlive his son and see his land fall to a foreign people. Túrin looked to Mîm for where he should stress a line or where his voice should fade, while some of the gnarled hate left Mîm’s face, like a fist slowly uncurling.

When Túrin finished, Mîm wiped at his eyes, shaking his head as he rose to leave. Beleg arrived at the doorway a few seconds after Mîm passed, relieving Túrin of hearing them snipe at each other.

“You are hiding yourself in here when your men keep calling for you,” Beleg said, flushed and languid from merriment. “And I have caught you singing a dirge, as if nothing had brought you joy in these past few days.”

“I had to restore the sadness to my countenance, or even you would not recognize me.”

“Your work is undone, for you are smiling already.”

Túrin frowned and joined Beleg, who wrapped his arm around Túrin’s waist as they walked. It was only a familiar gesture among Elves, but many Men would have thought otherwise. Not wanting to push Beleg away, he twisted to check if anyone was near, and saw Mîm watching from down the hall. The spitefulness Túrin feared was not there, though Mîm swiftly cast his eyes at the floor and disappeared down another passage. He felt as if he had prevented some awful turn in Mîm’s brain, though he did not know what evil Mîm could have worked on him.

His men begged for a reel when they reached camp, and Túrin found he wanted to spare no more thoughts for darkness, at least until the tune was ended.

**Author's Note:**

> The ending kinda sorta most definitely hints that this is discreetly a fix-it fic, and for that I have no remorse. As for Túrin's musical bent, it's mentioned in "The Lay of the Children of Húrin," in _The Lays of Beleriand_ : 'On manhood's threshold he was mighty holden in the wielding of weapons; and in weaving song he had a minstrel's mastery, but mirth was not in it, for he mourned the misery of the men of Hithlum.' (352-355)
> 
> Gorthaur = the Sindarin version of Sauron
> 
> Great thanks go out to my beta, StripySock, for her kind and insightful help.
> 
> The title is from an Italian saying that shows up in Henry George Bohn's _A Polyglott of Foreign Proverbs_ , "Who does not wish to be like the wolf let him not wear its skin."
> 
> Mithen, your list of general likes was so inspiring I tried to fit in as many as I could, and had a wonderful time doing so.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] The Wolf Sheds His Coat by sath](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5450804) by [pumpkinpodfic (thegreatpumpkin)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegreatpumpkin/pseuds/pumpkinpodfic)




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